If You Could Be Mine (21 page)

“No.” Taraneh smiles shyly at me. “I just thought maybe you and I could do something. Alone.” I stop in my tracks and look at Taraneh. She has my undivided attention at last as she continues. “I was thinking of checking out Restaurant Javan. Have you heard of it?”

Oh
. She’s clutching her backpack strap tight, probably in response to my gaping mouth.

“Yes, I have been there before,” I say. “Have you?” She bites her lip and nods. I close my mouth and gulp. “Well, I’m . . . I’m glad that you have been there, too. It’s a nice place. I, um . . . I just don’t think I am ready to go back there yet.”

“The food isn’t that great?” she asks, arching one perfectly tweezed eyebrow. I laugh a little. She’s funny. I never noticed.

“How did you, um . . . how did you know about me?” I ask, hoping I am not obvious.

“I wasn’t completely sure. Just hopeful. Plus, you never appreciate Dr. Claudio when he appears on television. Objectively, he’s a very attractive man.” She says it so easily—like we are talking about the most normal thing in the world.

“I don’t know that I’m necessarily ready for a new dinner companion at Restaurant Javan,” I admit.

She smiles at me. “I was heartbroken once.”

God, I’m so obvious. She touches my sneaker with hers in solidarity.

“Sahar!” I turn around to find Reza, standing by his double-parked Mercedes. He looks tired, confused, and even scared. I tremble at the sight of him.

“Who is that?” Taraneh asks. I should just say he’s nobody and continue walking with her. I’ve done my best to forget about all of it these past six months. I haven’t spoken to Nasrin since the wedding. “Do you want me to stay with you?” Taraneh offers, nervous for my safety. I’m surprised that I never noticed any special attention from her before now. I’ll have to ask another time how she got over her broken heart. I kiss both of her cheeks, say good-bye, and walk over to Reza.

“Sahar, I am sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy with school but I—it’s Nasrin,”

“Is she hurt? Is she okay?” I’m panicking now. She’s too selfish to harm herself. Isn’t she?

“She’s not hurt. But she . . . She’s been crying a lot, and I don’t know what’s bothering her. She won’t tell me. We were doing fine until a week ago. I don’t know how to get her to open up.” Maybe what she’s done is at last catching up with her. “Will you please come see her?”

No. It’s over.
He’s supposed to take care of her now. He’s her better half. I’m nothing to her anymore. It isn’t a good idea.

“Please,” he says. “You’re her best friend.” Everything comes flooding back. All of our birthdays; all of our New Year’s celebrations; Maman’s hospital room; watching Nasrin dance, tutoring her in math, her hugging me when the world felt overwhelming. She has been there for all of it.

“Let’s go,” I say, and Reza rushes to the front passenger seat door, opening it for me. He quickly gets into the driver’s seat and peels out onto the street, almost colliding with two taxis. This type of driving is typical in Tehran, but I’ve never before seen it from Reza.

“Stupid traffic!” He pounds on his horn as soon as he merges onto the highway. His radio plays classical Iranian music.

“Nasrin hates classical music,” I tell him. He looks over at me in confusion.

“She told me she loves it.” Of course she did.

“She lied to you.” I’d like to tell him about all the other things she has lied about. He’s gripping the steering wheel tighter now and scrutinizes me as we sit in traffic. I stare back at him, waiting for him to ask. He can’t hurt me anymore.

“Why were you at the clinic?” he asks, like he doesn’t know. Does he want confirmation of all the thoughts he’s been trying to keep at bay? Do I want to give him that satisfaction?

The traffic is finally moving. A watermelon truck is now in the breakdown lane, and green globes of various sizes are strewn across the exit ramp. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep in all the things I want to say like, “I know you’re nice but I can’t stand you,” or “Your wife is totally hot for me, you dumb donkey.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” You won, Reza. I lost. Game over. He accelerates and merges onto the next exit, the one that leads to all the fancy villas with large, ornate iron gates.

“I love Nasrin,” he says. “I’m committed to her, even when her behavior is sometimes . . . irrational. I know she had a life before me, and I’d rather not know what that entailed.” He gulps. His uncertainty gives me no satisfaction.

We approach the villa gate and he opens it with a remote. The high life—their villa looks like a prison. A gorgeous, large, glamorous prison with a princess trapped inside. He puts the car in park. Then he just sits there, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The gallant prince has yet to get off his steed to save the day. “I hate that I can’t comfort her or make her happy all the time.” I really hope he doesn’t start bawling, or this is going to be exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Nothing’s ever perfect,” I murmur. “Especially with Nasrin.” He chortles at that, and I guess he’s figured out how spoiled Nasrin can be. Especially when she wants something she can’t have anymore.

“She misses her best friend. You know her better than anyone else. Maybe you know her even better than she knows herself. And so I hope that when I invite you into our home, you will act accordingly.” The prince isn’t here to save the princess. He’s gone and recruited the court jester to do the job. I nod as he unbuckles his seat belt and opens his door. I don’t wait for him to open mine, even though he’s rushing around the car to do so.

I look up at the ornate house. It’s not as nice as the Mehdis’, but it’s pretty close. I’m ready to climb the castle walls. Reza leads me inside. The marble floors probably cost more than fifteen years’ rent at Baba’s workshop.

“She’s in our bedroom,” Reza says. We both walk up the marble stairs. It’s a little much, even for Nasrin. We reach a rich mahogany door, and Reza knocks on it quietly. “
Azizam,
it’s me. Can you let me in?” No answer. Reza leans his head against the door and sighs. I imagine he has been doing this for a very long time. I put my hand on his shoulder and gently try to pull him away. He backs away from the door and walks down the hallway, out of sight.

“Nasrin?” I call to her gently. “Reza tells me you haven’t talked to him for a few days. He’s worried about you. I’m here now. Let me in.
Please.
”

She opens the door, and she has tears smearing her cheeks. It must be bad. She isn’t wearing any makeup. She walks back to her bed and curls into a fetal position, making herself very small and turning her back to me. The lights are off, and crumpled tissues are strewn all over her nightstand.

“What are you doing here?” she mumbles.

“Reza. He brought me.”

“He fetched you to fix me? How stupid of him.” She says that last bit in disbelief. I don’t blame her. I sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at her curled-up form. Seeing her so helpless makes me sick to my stomach. “I haven’t seen you in months,” she says. It was something we had decided together. It would make the change easier, for both of us. “Did you miss me?” Her voice sounds desperate. I lie down next to her and hold her in my arms, her back against my chest, her frayed and unkempt hair brushing my face.

“I miss you every moment of every day, you spoiled brat.”

She makes a noise that I think is a laugh. I will accept any noise she is willing to utter.

“Does it go away?” she asks. “Missing each other?”

I think about how much I missed Maman. I still do, though it isn’t as acute as it once was. “A little bit,” I whisper. “Enough so that life continues. In a year you won’t even think about me.” She turns around in my arms and looks up at me, tugging at a strand of my hair.

“Don’t say stupid things, Sahar. You’re smarter than that.” She curls my hair around one finger and unravels it just as quickly. Don’t kiss her. Those days are over. She’s your friend now. Be her friend.

“I’m pregnant.” She starts crying. I hold still for a moment, making absolutely sure I don’t cringe or vomit.

“Does Reza know?” I ask shakily. She shakes her head no. He’s going to be thrilled and she’s not ready for that. “Isn’t this what you wanted? A family of your own?” She starts sobbing now, guttural sobs that make her whole body quake. I try to soothe her the best I can by holding her close and patting her hair. Eventually she calms enough to get words out.

“When the doctor told me, I wished you were there with me. I love this baby already, whether it’s a boy or a girl, but he or she won’t know what you mean to me. The best person I know won’t be around anymore. And suddenly everything seemed like a huge mistake. You’re the one I should grow old with. And I can’t.”

We’re both crying now. My tears roll down, quickly and quietly—no sobs. She always has to outshine me in the dramatics department.

She is in this now, and there is no way Reza will ever let her take the baby away from him. If they divorced, custody would go to him. I am not worth that. I would feel guilt for the rest of my life, and anyway, Nasrin would never give up her child.

I hope it’s a girl. God, she’ll be beautiful.

I wipe my tears with one hand and pull away from Nasrin. She will be fine once the baby arrives, the love for her child overshadowing anything else. I have to be the strong one. Just like when we were kids.

“You’re always going to be a part of me, Nasrin.” She tries to catch her breath between gasps and stares at me with longing. I shake my head. “Not like we were, but it can be enough. It
has
to be enough.” I don’t flinch, I don’t stammer, I don’t feel I am saying the wrong thing. It doesn’t matter anymore.
I
shouldn’t matter anymore.

Nasrin frowns. I smile a little and tell her, “You’re looking at me the way I looked at you.” She grimaces when she hears
looked,
past tense
.
I pretend that I don’t notice, for both our sakes.

“I’m sorry,” she says. So she has finally apologized. It’s not as satisfying as I thought it would be.

I take her hand in mine. “Don’t be,” I say. “I’m looking forward to being an aunt. Under Reza’s supervision, anyway.” She laughs. We both know he’ll do whatever she wants, and I’ll be able to visit them whenever I please. She stares at our hands clasped together. I would hold her hand forever if I could.

But I can’t. So I let go. I love her, and I have to let go.

Acknowledgments

Chris Lynch for being the Mr. Miyagi to my Daniel-san and believing in me; Elise Howard for changing my life and being a generally awesome human being; Chris Crutcher, Tony Abbott, Amy Downing for being so generous; my agent Leigh Feldman at Writer’s House and Ken Wright for introducing us; Emily Parliman and Jean Garnett for all of their work; Algonquin Books for taking on this story; Lesley University’s MFA program; every teacher I have ever had (even the math teachers); and my friends and family.

Meet Sahar . . .

Her only worry as a seventeen-year-old should be whether or not she gets into university. However, being desperately in love with her best friend, Nasrin, in the Islamic Republic of Iran, complicates everything. Sahar is willing to go to great lengths to stop Nasrin from marrying a man, even if it means becoming a man herself. Sahar is brave, intelligent, innocent, slightly naive, devoted to her widower father, and quietly brimming with anger.

To be a doctor and be with Nasrin by any means necessary.

and her best friend, Nasrin . . .

Spoiled, wealthy, gorgeous and, searching for her parents’ approval, Nasrin is willing to marry handsome, successful Reza even though her heart belongs to Sahar. More concerned with current fashions than the feelings of others, she is adorably (to Sahar) self-centered, as a high school senior should be, and believes she is entitled to everything she wants. The only time she is truly herself—rather than what society expects her to be—is when she is around Sahar.